


city lights on the water

by fulmentus



Series: did we ever really talk? (i don't know) [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi, but... different, others are briefly mentioned - Freeform, that weird time that takes place after their breakup to 4x14
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26940493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulmentus/pseuds/fulmentus
Summary: (And oh, this is a promise, their pinkies curling gently around each other.They’re Brittany and Santana. They never break their promises.)
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Series: did we ever really talk? (i don't know) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081046
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	city lights on the water

She laughs.

She laughs, and it’s brittle and sad and a little breathless, and it pushes against Brittany’s ribs, slips through the rungs and presses tight against her heart. Because oh, _oh_ , it sounds wrong. It sounds off, and maybe — oh maybe — Brittany thinks, Santana forgot how.

(She wiggles her fingers against her side, watches, lips stretched wide, cheeks hurting, as Santana’s face scrunches up as she laughs, bright and easy. Like breathing.)

She clutches her phone a little harder, cradles it against her ear a little firmer. Because oh, maybe if she — if she pressed close enough she could reach Santana.

“ _How was—_ ” She starts, soft and halted, and Brittany holds her breath— “ _How was the date with Trouty?_ ”

And oh, Brittany sucks in a breath, and another, and another because Sam. Because Santana is asking about the dinner at Breadstix she had with Sam (she tries not to think about how she used to nudge her meatballs with her nose like in _Lady and the Tramp_ , or how lonely it felt before and how _not_ lonely it felt when Santana was sitting across from her, eyes glowing in the lowlight, or how it felt chuckling at Sam’s impressions even though her thoughts were always straying toward—)

“San,” she whispers instead, shaking her head, gripping her phone tighter.

There’s a pause, a quiet intake of breath, and when Santana speaks again, hoarse and barely a whisper, Brittany feels the inexplicable urge to cry. “ _Yeah Britt?_ ”

And Brittany knows, _knows_ , that Santana’s speaking so quietly because she doesn’t want Brittany to hear the way her voice would waver and break, and oh, Brittany tucks a hand close to her chest, knocks her sternum with her knuckles. 

Santana’s sad (and she is too, down deeper, because somewhere between _I wasn’t sure if I should say ‘yes’_ and _I just want you to be happy_ and _I don’t want to be the cause of your smile going away_ , Brittany is aware that she is sad too). 

She’s always hated when Santana was sad and she couldn’t do anything to help.

Brittany curls up against her pillow, laying haphazardly across her blankets. 

“You don’t have to.”

And Santana falls silent once more, her soft breathing the only indication that she is still there. Brittany wants to reach, and reach, and reach until she can touch Santana again. Span the miles that separate them, that caused them to separate in the first place (because she gets it, she does, she does, she does). Wants to hold Santana close because Sam will never be the same.

(She wishes she can take it back.

Take back the pain and tapered words of _that’s how it felt when you left me behind_ because oh, it wasn’t really Santana’s fault.

Not really.)

(She just wants to press her cheek against Santana’s chest and listen to her breathe. Listen to the way her heartbeat slows and races to match Brittany’s.)

“You don’t have to,” she whispers again, fingers twisting into her blanket.

Santana breathes, a shuddering, shaky sound that pushes against Brittany’s heart. “ _Okay._ ”

—

Brittany feels like she’s suffocating.

She feels oddly betrayed and hurt and annoyed because Sam looks so incredulous about the whole thing. Figgins’ brows pinch, the perfect image of bafflement. And Brittany wants to scoff, wants to roll her eyes.

If she’s as stupid as everyone thinks she is, how could she have possibly cheated on her SATs when they were all being scrutinized and watched so carefully.

And oh, when Sam sighs, so put out, she can’t help the sting she feels then. Because oh, Sam always encouraged her and stated his belief that she was so smart. Now he’s surprised that she did better than him? That she got a near perfect score?

(Santana wouldn’t have been shocked.

Santana would have been _elated_. She would have hugged Brittany so tight and whispered that she always _knew_ Brittany could do it because oh, Santana always believed in her.)

And when Brittany calls her later, still hurt and anxious and worried that Santana won’t answer because she knows she has cheer practice, Santana reacts just as Brittany thought she would.

“ _Britt that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!_ ”

Brittany smiles, wide and bashful, ducking her head even though Santana can’t see her. And oh, her heart thrums and thrums in her chest, so full yet so empty because Santana isn’t here beside her, kissing her and hugging her in congratulations.

“Thanks San,” Brittany breathes. “Thank you for always believing in me.”

“ _Always_ ,” Santana says, firmly and staunchly, never doubting.

—

“She’s with me, okay? Just let it go.”

Brittany pauses before she turns the corner, peeks her head around, and oh, she can’t see Sam’s face but she can see Santana’s. And it’s determined and tired but _so Santana_. She shakes her head, scoffs a little. Brittany clutches her bag a little tighter.

“Never.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. _Oh, Santana_.

And when she says, _I just want you to aim higher_ , because Santana has always believed in Brittany and will never stop believing in Brittany (and Brittany feels the same, the same, the same), Brittany pushes her away. _Out_.

Santana has always been so much bigger than Lima, so much bigger than here. And Brittany needs to push her because she’s standing still, because she’s settling and Brittany doesn’t want her to. Not for her. Not when being here kills her.

( _Never_.)

And Santana swallows, thick and audible, before she’s pressing her lips gently, so _so_ gently against Brittany’s. A quiet ‘goodbye’, Brittany thinks distantly, dazed, heart aching.

“You’re my best friend,” Santana whispers in the small space between them.

Brittany almost chokes on the lump in her throat. _And you’re mine_ , she wants to say, but she nods instead, afraid her voice will break if she speaks. Because Santana has that soft look in her eyes —that melted, understanding look, like she wants to fight but she won’t because Brittany asked her not to.

She turns away instead, unable to maintain eye-contact lest she breaks. She tucks her binder and books closer to her chest and turns away.

She doesn’t see the way Santana watches her go, longing and hopeless, but she _feels_ it.

—

The next time they call — Brittany sliding her finger across her phone screen because oh, Santana’s the one who called _her_ this time — it’s a few days before Mr. Schue’s wedding.

“ _I miss you_ ,” is all she says, hushed and guilty, like she hates that she misses Brittany at all, like she doesn’t _deserve to_.

And it sits heavy against Brittany’s ribs until she breathes it out.

“I miss you too.”

(If she closes her eyes, Brittany can almost see the way Santana would smile at that, soft and wavering, uncertain but hopeful.)

(Her eyelids flutter, and all she sees is her empty bedroom and Lord Tubbington lounging on her desk chair, tail absently flicking back and forth, unimpressed.)

—

After Ms. Pillsbury doesn’t show at the altar and the reception carries on and Santana smiles once, _once_ — because Santana said once that she counted how many times Brittany smiled at her and Brittany wants to count now too — before the wedding was in progress, Brittany finds herself wide-awake.

Sam is collapsed on the bed sound asleep. But Brittany can’t follow suit.

There’s too much energy buzzing through her, frenetic and restless, and she can’t sleep. Can’t even begin to convince herself to crawl into her shared bed and close her eyes. She wonders if maybe she shouldn’t have said ‘yes’ to sharing a room with Sam.

(She saw Santana and Quinn disappear from the reception together, heart in her throat, but she didn’t pursue them.

Didn’t know if she really wanted to catch up to them.)

She presses the ridge of her palms to her eyes until dots of light scatter across her vision. She draws a breath, pushes herself to her feet. She can’t stay here. Not in this stifling room with Sam who sleeps on, undeterred and completely unaware.

She slides into her shoes, tucking her coat tight around her shoulders, and slips out of the room. 

She shivers, the hallway bright and illuminated but cold. Her footfalls echo and she clings a little tighter to her jacket. It’s not like the heater isn’t running in the hotel, but Brittany can feel the winter air seeping through the walls, through the floors.

(Maybe it has everything to do with how cold she felt, watching Santana walk away with Quinn.)

(Maybe she’s forgotten how to be warm.)

“Brittany?”

It’s hushed and soft, and Brittany’s eyes widen, her lips parting because oh — _oh_ , Santana’s watching her from the end of the corridor, eyes dark and quiet and subdued, raven hair tumbling over one shoulder. Disheveled and wavy, and Brittany wants to run her fingers through it, her hand extending like she’s about to cross the distance, but—

“What are you still doing up?” Santana wonders aloud, canting her head, oddly loud in the silence that spans between them.

Brittany swallows the sudden emotion in her throat, blinks once, twice, rapid. She wasn’t ready for this — wasn’t ready to see Santana again, _alone_. Not after she pushed her to go to New York. Not after she danced the night away with Sam, trying to pretend she didn’t catch Santana glancing at them with barely concealed longing and hurt and jealousy.

The overhead lights of the corridor casts her in a soft golden glow, and Brittany’s breath hitches.

“I couldn’t—” Her voice cracks halfway through, and Santana’s brow furrows in concern as she takes a step forward, instinctive, and Brittany’s eyes burn. “I couldn’t sleep,” she finishes on a tapered breath.

Santana’s expression softens. “Oh, Britt,” she sighs.

Her fingers twist, a nervous tell, and Brittany can’t help echoing it, her insides coiling tight, too tight. She can scarcely breathe.

Santana hesitates, Brittany can see the way she wars with herself (she’s always seen Santana after all), before she takes a step, and another, and another. And she stands in front of Brittany then, head tilted upward, eyes darting between hers.

“Are you okay?” She murmurs.

Brittany shakes her head. She doesn’t — she _isn’t_. She hasn’t been all year. Because she’s so used to having her best friend, having _Santana_ , beside her every step of the way. Sam is nice and kind, and makes her laugh, makes her smile. But it’s not the same.

Brittany stills turns her head to the side during glee club, expecting to see Santana giggling at the joke she made that no one else understood, or huffing at Rachel and Finn, or poking fun at the others in undertone. Her heart seized every time she looked and Santana wasn’t there, waiting. Like she always was.

“I—”

Santana’s hand is warm against hers, soft against her skin, and Brittany has to blink again. Has to suck in a breath, because Santana is watching her, soft and sad and conflicted, but she’s here.

“San—” Brittany gasps out.

And it’s Santana’s turn to shake her head, to squeeze Brittany’s wrist. “Walk with me?”

Brittany could never say no to her (not that she ever wanted to).

— 

Santana doesn’t let go of her hand. If anything, she clutches tighter, her thumb sweeping lines across the underside, and Brittany’s heart stumbles forward, then stops, then jumps again. 

She can’t keep her eyes off her. Magnetized and unbidden, her gaze never strays, and if Santana’s bothered, she gives no indication.

Brittany shuffles a little closer, noting the way Santana’s shoulders tremble against the breeze.

“Probably should’ve worn a thicker jacket,” she laughs, weary.

Brittany merely smiles, tentatively links their arms together, loose enough for Santana to pull away (she hopes she won’t). 

She doesn’t. 

If anything, she leans into Brittany, shoulders pressing together, their sleeves bunching together, and oh _oh_ , it feels like last year. Last year when they were giddy and laughing, collapsing in on each other. Warm and light and _everything_.

Santana’s head is a comforting weight on her shoulder, and Brittany, for the briefest moment, forgets how to breathe normally. Forgets how to suck in the air, cold as it might be, and let it out. Every breath catches in her lungs and mists from her mouth.

“It’s beautiful out here.”

Brittany casts her eyes about, trying, trying, trying to keep herself steady. Being so close to Santana again is incredibly disorienting.

The street lamps hang limply in the dark, glowing and effervescent, soft against the darkness of the sky. Brittany kicks at the frost layering the ground, huffs out a laugh when Santana wobbles at the motion, pushing closer against Brittany’s side, her surprised exhale warm against her neck.

“It is,” Brittany agrees softly, stopping beneath one of the gentle pools of light.

She tilts her head down, catches the tail-end of Santana’s fleeting smile, the way her eyes flicker gold for a moment.

 _It really is_.

And she knows she won’t have this for much longer, only mere hours if she really wants to push it, but she knows. It’s not meant to last. Not this time (but oh, hopefully in the future she can have this forever, Santana by her side, because they’ve always, _always_ been Brittany and Santana; best friends, inseparable).

She’s going to have to go back to Sam, to the choir room that’s so empty, so lonely without Santana, and Santana will go back to New York with Rachel and Kurt.

She breathes deep.

She has tonight.

—

( _I’ve really missed you,_ she admits, quiet against the dark.

Santana’s hair brushes against the underside of her chin, her nose cold against the crook of her neck.

_I’ve missed you too, Britt._

She runs a hand up her arm, Santana shivering at the contact. _I missed my best friend_.

And there’s a moment — a second really — of silence before Santana’s breath hitches and her arms tighten around Brittany’s shoulders. She presses closer, closer, closer, and Brittany holds her just as tight.)

(They’ve never needed words.)

—

When Santana presses a lingering kiss on her cheek, so close to the corner of her mouth, Brittany knows. Knows, knows, knows.

They’re both waiting.

She smiles, secretive, and Brittany returns it with one of her own, her heart swelling between her ribs, her lungs remembering how to breathe steady.

And then she laughs, she laughs. And Brittany has to laugh, too, at the sound because oh, this is _her_ Santana, all wide smiles and shining eyes and dimpled cheeks. It doesn’t pull at her chest this time, doesn’t make her ache and cry.

Because Santana remembers this time.

The edges of the sky brighten, a soft grey-blue and indigo, streaks of pink tinging the corners, and oh, Brittany doesn’t think about Sam in their hotel room, doesn’t think about how Santana came to the wedding with Quinn, doesn’t think of the days that they’ve been apart. 

She watches the sun rise in the depths of Santana’s eyes.

(And oh, this is a promise, their pinkies curling gently around each other.

They’re Brittany and Santana. They never break their promises.)

—

Brittany’s phone dings with a text when everyone is piling into their cars, ready to leave the lot, and oh, she smiles down at the screen, warm and fond, thumb brushing over Santana’s name.

They’re going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!  
> title from: i'm sure y'all know lol (mine // glee cast version)
> 
> (i wrote this about 5 months ago but am just now getting around to posting it here. i figured it's the least i can do for the fandom, and for naya - we miss you)


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